


Lonely Digging

by ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Billy Can't Flirt Properly, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 02:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13424784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: Lone Digger - noun - to be the only one of a group to groove with the music in a club, bar, or party where music is played.Steve has made a career of being one of a kind.  Then Billy Hargrove comes along.





	Lonely Digging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brawlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/gifts).



> So I was super hype about this and now I feel very lackluster about it, but maybe other people will like it anyway? Here ya go.

The club is a mess of blinding lights, of sweaty bodies, of pounding base. Steve already has a headache before Dustin even buzzes in his ear:

_ “Shit. Bad news. Hargrove is here.” _

After that, the headache gets worse. 

It wouldn't be the first time Billy Hargrove had shown up where he was least wanted.  It seems, increasingly, like he takes jobs near Steve just to give him heart palpitations. 

Steve has always been about a clean, quiet job. No one is ever the wiser when a string of diamonds goes missing from around someone's neck, when sensitive documents get copied and leaked to the wrong person, when cash or a priceless heirloom goes missing from a safe, until it's too late. 

Billy Hargrove is the exact opposite of clean and quiet. 

But people pay Steve top dollar for a reason.  He's not going to let one asshole ruin that. 

“Get me a location,” Steve mutters into his gin and tonic. 

Dustin -- loyal, wonderful Dustin -- does. 

Steve just hopes that, this time, nothing will end up on fire. 

***

After years of sliding under the radar, of scraping by, of using fake names and fake accounts and fake identities, Steve pulls off his first successful heist after being discovered by a gruff retired cop named Hopper.  In comparison with the complex system he and his partner in crime had set up-- using checks that should bounce, attached to accounts that are faker that Carol’s nose job, to pay off loans that shouldn’t exist, taken out in the backs of family diners and, on one smelly occasion, in the front office of a fishery, in order to pay for their gadgets, for their constant movement, for their thrilling, stupid way of life-- getting paid to look pretty and to swipe up some documents from the desk of some big wig during an office party is child’s play.

It’s easy-- get in, smile, get out-- and Hopper pays out the nose for those documents.  

He’s barely twenty-three, Dustin has just turned nineteen, and they’d been squatting in an apartment for the last three months because Dustin’s shiny new bill counterfeiter had eaten up most of their savings.  Now, they have enough to set up shop somewhere without rats.  Dustin is elated.  Steve is relieved.  

This is where Steve would say his career began. 

***

It’s a lie.

***

The first theft was straight out of his dad’s own back pocket.  Steve was sixteen, his mother had just died, and Steve was angry.  

So angry that he orchestrated the draining of his father’s offshore corporate accounts into a private account of his own, with the assistance of the thirteen year old super genius he sometimes babysat, and revealed his dad’s under-the-table dealings to the IRS with an anonymous tip.  His dad got slapped with a hefty fine and sentenced to fifteen years with a chance of parole in seven.  

Steve just never stopped after that. 

***

After the first successful job, Hopper uses Steve and Dustin for all of his shadier dealings.  Steve and Dustin are good at what they do.  Dustin is the guy behind the scenes; Steve is the pretty face.  

Steve lies and seduces and steals his way into a better life.  Into a loft in Brooklyn, into a sleek Mercedes SLS ANG, into fitted suits and wild nights and expensive bottles of bourbon. 

He and Dustin become well known for getting their sticky fingers in places they shouldn't without anyone noticing.  

They like what they do.  They're good at what they do.  They get better. 

They become the best. 

***

Then, Steve meets Billy Hargrove. 

***

It's during a simple, straightforward pickpocket job.   It's at a vineyard, just outside of the Sonoma Valley.  Steve is supposed to find a man in a white suit and steal his mobile. 

Most of the patrons there for the tasting are focused on the bassist and the accompanying flamenco dancers’ red skirts.  Steve is hunting. 

That's when he sees him.  The man in white, a cigar between his lips, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes, staring at Steve like  _ he's _ the prey. 

He's pretty. Blue eyes, broad shoulders, and good hands. Steve would've liked to have him if he hadn't been on deadline. 

So, instead of approaching, Steve demures.  Plays at timid. Uses his big, brown eyes to his advantage -- meets the stranger's gaze briefly enough to catch and hold his attention, then skirts it away again. Nurses his drink. Invites the attention while pretending to hide from it. 

At the center of the room, the dancers do the same.  Flip their skirts, hint at sin, and then shy away. 

The game is a dance of its own.  One that beckons, that says  _ come to me _ , and leaves an illusion of  _ choice _ . 

Because, ultimately, the mark always comes. 

“What in the world is a pretty thing like you doing over here by yourself?”

Steve blinks up from his glass like he's surprised.  “I'm sorry?”

“You're forgiven,” the man in white says, his cheek dimpling as he grins, smelling like rich spice and cigar smoke, and offers out a hand.  “William Hargrove.”

“Carbonell,” Steve says, and takes his hand.  

Hargrove's brows arch up.  “I don't get a first name?”

“I don't think you've earned it, yet.”

The smile he gets in response is a dangerous one.  Steve doesn't find that out until much later.  

“Well, Mr. Carbonell, what do you think?”

He doesn't let go of Steve's hand. 

“Of?”

“The music?  The dancers?  The wine?  I see you're fond of the red.” His eyes drop to Steve's mouth. 

“Impressive,” Steve says. “But I've had better.”

“Oh,” Hargrove shakes his head. “I don't think you have.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“You're enjoying it too much,” his eyes, burning and so blue, drop down over the fitted grey lines of Steve's suit. “You're practically swaying on your feet.”

“Maybe it's the music,” Steve says, but he sways forward, sways closer. 

Hargrove's grin broadens. “Maybe it's something else.”

“Maybe,” Steve untangles his hand from Hargrove's grip, places it on his chest, slides it beneath his lapel.  “Do you dance, William Hargrove?” 

“Call me Billy,” he breathes, his hands big and warm when they find their way to Steve’s waist.  

“Do you dance, Billy?” 

“Depends.  Most of the time?  No.  With you?” Billy smiles.  “I think I could make an exception.” 

Steve hums, finds the slim phone tucked neatly beneath the silk lining of Billy’s suit jacket, and curls his fingers around it.  He blinks a few times, almost dazedly, and then smiles too.

“Think we could raincheck?” Steve asks.  “I think you’re right about the wine.” 

“Would you like another glass?” Billy plucks the empty one from Steve’s fingertips, lifts it with a brow, and tilts his head.  

“I think I would.” 

“Wait here then, pretty boy.” Billy says, leans in the fraction of an inch, his lips pressing to the corner of Steve’s mouth, and Steve is stunned enough that he nearly doesn’t palm Billy’s phone in time for him to pull away.  “I’ll be right back.” 

And then he’s gone and Steve watches him, those broad shoulders in that white suit, until he’s lost in the crowd.  

Then, Steve slips away.  Makes his way, quickly and quietly and on steady feet, out the back door of the villa and to the brick path that leads out to the cars.  He digs into his own pocket, pulls out an earpiece, and sets in in place.  

“Talk to me, shithead.” Steve says, popping the back of the phone open.  

_ “We need the memory storage chip, _ ” Dustin says.   _ “Have a good time?”  _

“Please, tell me you weren’t watching the cameras again.” 

_ “Just watching your back, _ ” Dustin huffs.   _ “Besides, there was a bunch of interference.  Those hills have shitty coverage. _ ” 

“Can I trash the rest of this thing?” Steve asks, once he has the memory chip carefully tucked away and in his breast pocket.  

_ “I would.  Don’t wanna risk someone tracking it back, y’know?”  _

“Yeah,” Steve pops the back into place again, flips it over, and nearly drops it as it buzzes against his palm.  “What the fuck?” 

_ “What?” _

“Nothing.  Mark just got a text is all.” 

_ “Did you already take out the memory chip?” _

“Yeah, man, jesus--” 

_ “Are you  _ sure _?  It shouldn’t be able to receive any calls or messages if you did-- _ ” 

That’s when the bomb goes off.  

It's strong enough to knock Steve off his feet.  Strong enough to kill, if anyone had been close enough to it.  Luckily, Steve will find out later, it was set down in the basement where the wine sits in oak barrels to age, and no one was close enough to come to much harm. 

Dustin’s voice is static in his ear. Nothing but garbled words and crackling feedback. 

Steve rips it from his ear and goes for his phone in his pant pocket.  He comes up empty. 

“What the fuck?” 

Laying half-sprawled over the dirt and gravel drive, chin bleeding from where he hit the ground, Steve pats himself down and doesn't find his phone anywhere. 

The one he slipped from Billy Hargrove's suit pocket buzzes again, screen cracked, face up and two feet away. 

Steve scrambles to it, thumbs the easy lock open, and stares down at the messages waiting for him. 

_ You said you wanted to dance. _

_ Let's dance, pretty boy.  _

“What the  _ fuck _ ?”

***

Somehow, somewhere along the way, Steve and Dustin’s success caught the eye of more than one dangerous party -- despite their very careful, very meticulous work. 

It's not exactly surprising.  Their job is a dangerous one that deals with dangerous people.   _ Really _ , Hopper says after Steve tells him what happened at the vineyard job, and later at the estate job where Billy Hargrove gets his hands on a sapphire before Steve can,  _ it was only a matter of time _ . 

The surprising part comes from the manner in which they are targeted.

Billy Hargrove and his cohort  _ Mad Max _ lured them out under a false job, stole Steve’s phone, and definitely pivoted and hacked their systems through it.  And yet there are no threats.  No information wipes.  No brute force attacks to their firewalls.  No feds on their doorstep. 

Instead, their jobs start getting hijacked.  Instead, whenever Steve goes out on a job, there's about a fifty-fifty chance that Billy Hargrove will be there, too. 

And, if he shows, there's about a one hundred percent chance that an alarm will go off at the wrong time, that something will end up in flames, and that Steve will get away by the skin of his teeth. 

***

Steve doesn't have to wait too long to find Billy.  Mostly because, like usual, Billy finds him first. 

“Don't even think about it, Hargrove.” Steve says, the second he feels a warm chest press flush along his back, the moment hands come to rest at his hips, and he feels Billy's laugh thrum down his spine and all along his nerves. 

“Think about what?” he asks, over the dull thump of bass, hips rocking in a mockery of the beat. 

Steve lets him.  It helps him blend in. 

“Another shitty pickup line,” Steve says, frowning at the crowd, eyes skimming for his mark.  

“You're tense,” Billy says, and presses a kiss to Steve's shoulder, mouth hot even through a layer of cotton.  “You should loosen up a little.  Let go.” 

“I'm busy.”

“On the prowl?” Billy presses his grin to the spot just behind Steve's ear, and Steve's back molars grind together.  “Who's the target tonight?”

“No one who would interest you,” Steve says, and it's true -- this is one of Hopper’s personal tasks, something Billy is either never interested in or doesn't ever know about, not an outsourced theft that Billy can steal out from under his nose.  “Don't you have an elsewhere to be?”

“You're not happy to see me?”

Steve snorts, twists to face him for the first time where they're hovering at the edges of the crowded floor, where the pillars holding up the second story muffle the music.  “Last time I saw you, you blew up my car.”

Billy beams.  “It was a distraction.  I was helping.” 

“You  _ blew up  _ my  _ car _ ,” Steve repeats.  “ _ How _ is that helping?” 

“You got away, didn’t you?” 

“What if I’d been in it?” Steve’s brows pinch, his voice pitching a bit high. 

“You weren’t,” Billy shrugs a shoulder, and Steve has to take a breath so he doesn’t try and strangle the  _ cocky _ right out of him.

Luckily, that’s when Dustin chimes in.  Steve steps slightly back, head turning, but Billy keeps his hands firm on Steve’s hips.  

_ “Spotted Kali entering the backdoor with her crew _ ,” Dustin says.  “ _ If you wanna get a tracker on any of them before they disappear again, now would be the time, man _ .” 

“Sorry, Hargrove, I’d say I was sad to cut this short, but that’d be a lie.” 

“Duty calls,” Billy nods his head, humming, but instead of letting him go, he tugs Steve stumbling closer, until their knees knock and their hips are flush, hands slipping around to curve over Steve’s ass.  “You work too much, pretty boy.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Tell me your name, and maybe I won’t.” 

Steve laughs, half-hysteric and half-charmed, the way Billy Hargrove always seems to make him feel.  “Not likely.  Besides, I’m pretty sure you’ve bugged my systems so thoroughly that you can figure it out for yourself.” 

“I can.  Or, rather, my  _ assistant _ can.” Billy nods.  “But I want  _ you  _ to tell me.” 

Steve’s breath stalls.  This is dangerous.  Dangerous and stupid and Steve knows it.  Steve likes his jobs quiet and simple and quick.  There’s nothing quiet or simple or quick about Billy.  

Steve knows it. 

It doesn’t stop him, though.  The thrill is too much.  It’s what got him into this line of business in the first place.  And Billy, while an insurmountable headache on most days, is  _ always _ a thrill.  

“I don’t think you’ve earned it,” Steve says, and Billy’s smile goes sharp and wide and hungry.  “Yet.” 

“Aren’t you tired of dancing?” Billy asks, but his eyes are bright. 

And Steve thinks  _ no _ .  No, he really isn’t.  

“Sorry, Billy.” Steve pulls away, but he’s grinning all the while, stepping out of Billy’s hands and knowing he’s just inviting more trouble.  “Like you said, duty calls.” 

“I’ll be seeing you, pretty boy.” Billy calls. 

“Probably,” Steve replies, and then he’s lost in the crowd, in the noise, in the buzz. 

***

Later, after Steve successfully drops a tracer on one of Kali’s cohorts, after he gets back to his loft and reports back to Hopper, after he’s plopped down onto his couch, he pulls out the phone Billy had slipped into his back pocket while blatantly groping him at the edges of the dance floor.  There's a text message waiting for him. 

_ Next time, we're gonna do a different kind of dancing, pretty boy.  _

Looking back, Steve will think that's where it began. His strange relationship with Billy Hargrove. 

***

It’s a lie. 

***

It started the first time Steve saw him across a crowded room, in a white suit, and invited him to dance in the first place. 


End file.
